


First Time

by itendswithz



Category: Captain America, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, M/M, Omega Clint, Omega Steve, WIP, alpha bucky, canon level violence, multiple personalities disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 18:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itendswithz/pseuds/itendswithz
Summary: Bucky's got a secret - he's a virgin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first six chapters of this in 2014 and I haven't touched it since. Until now that is. It's still a WIP but I'm gonna finish it before July 4th.
> 
> Not beta read. My bad on any mistake you find.

Bucky's got a secret - he's a virgin.

* * * 

Before joining the Avengers, before being rescued, before Hydra, before dying, before the war and even before Steve, James Buchanan Barnes had a sister. A little omega girl named Rebecca.

He remembers the day his mother came home with a baby - a tiny, pink thing wrapped in his old baby blanket. His mom sat him down and told him as the alpha of the house he had to protect his sister, had to help keep her pure.

He didn’t know what she meant, but the flu happened and the point became moot. 

Steve explained it all five years later.

"Omegas are expected to be virgins when we marry," Steve said one night in the orphanage, long after James' mother and sister are laid to rest. "That way we’re pure and can get our alphas into heaven. It's bushwa."

The sickly 12-year-old was having a rare day when his coughing had slowed to nearly nothing and James doesn’t ask any more questions, letting Steve fall asleep. But he lays awake on the dirty cot, staring at the ceiling. He knew his mother was a saint. There was no way she wasn’t up in heaven with Sarah Rogers watching over their boys. Becca hadn’t been old enough to sin. She had to be in heaven too.

By morning light, James hasn’t slept a wink thinking over this revelation, so he makes a vow. He’s going to stay pure until his wedding night. He’s going to live his afterlife with the sister he never got to meet. He won’t disappoint his mother.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bucky is 17 when Sister Ann asks him to leave the orphanage. He has a job pushing boxes in a warehouse at the docks. He gives a portion of his money to help feed the young kids but the nuns are taking in more and more tiny, hungry faces every day and it’s getting harder and harder to feed all the small mouths, let alone an alpha who shouldn't be relying on others.

“You ain’t going anywhere I can’t follow,” Steve says, tiny head jutting forward when he catches Bucky packing his meager belongings.

Stevie’s the pushiest omega Bucky’s ever met but he’s glad Steve is so stubborn. Bucky’s not an ethel - he’s an alpha so that means he’s brave - and he won’t admit it, but his fingers were trembling when he took the duffel bag from Sister Ann after their talk. The pair have been living together for nearly 10 years and the idea of leaving without Steve caused a heavy weight to settle deep in his stomach.

Hearing those words makes it feels like he can breathe again.

“You ain’t going nowhere,” Bucky drawls, “If you don’t pack your own stuff.”

Steve smiles before coughing into the palm of his hand. Kneeling by his cot, Steve drags all the pencils, paper and art supplies he’s managed to horde over the years through the dust bunnies gathered under his bed. He wipes them clean on the wool blankets some ritzy omega donated thirty years ago before shoving them into the duffel.

Everything fits in the bag easily.

Finding a place for a young alpha and the omega with him is more difficult than Bucky could have imagined. The few places in his price range are run-down hell holes he won’t even let Steve see. It gets so bad, Bucky thinks about returning to the orphanage. Until one morning Steve drags him to a nice looking building one afternoon. The railings are loose but they aren’t covered in grime and the hallway doesn't smell of urine. Bucky doesn’t get his hopes up; a place like this will cost a fortune.

He’s ready to turn tail and leave but Steve walks into the alpha landlord’s office, forcing Bucky to follow.

“I would feel so safe here, knowing there’s a big, strong alpha living on the first floor,” Steve says during the interview, voice strangely light while batting his eyelashes. He’s got one delicate hand on the pudgy man’s fat left wrist, the other softly pressing against his own clavicle. “Isn’t there something you can do to help me and my **friend**?”

He’s the perfect picture of innocence and sweetness.

Bucky wants to snort - he’s heard the filth Steve spews, the idea someone could buy this milquetoast act makes him want to roll his eyes but the landlord’s buggy eyes barely glance at Bucky. 

The frogged-face sap stays focused on Steve as he smiles wide and hands over a key. “If you need anything,” the alpha says placing his other chubby hand over Stevie’s wrist, “ _anything_ , just come down.”

Steve smiles before laughing lightly, hand lingering when he plucks the key out of the man’s palm.

Steve’s still smiling when they march up four flights of stairs, but a wheezing fit overcomes him when they reach the top. Bucky softly knocks him out of the way, opens the door and lifts Steve into his arms. Steve laughs and swats his chest but the omega doesn’t fight it. Bucky carries Steve around the room showing off their new place.

The one-windowed room is on the small side and Steve is still breathing shallowly as Bucky’s steps thud on the cheap tile. There’s space for a bed, maybe a little desk or a chair and plenty of room for Steve’s art supplies. The communal kitchen is one level down but the shared bathroom is on their floor. Bucky knows they're lucky to have this - it’s better than taking shifts sleeping in random doorways, one of them always awake to prevent a caper from stealing their duffle bag. 

It doesn't feel like home. Not yet. It feels like a future, though.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Living with Steve is easy. The punk still kicks in his sleep, but he hasn’t died from his many alignments yet. Bucky takes that as a victory. Sketches of various Brooklyn landscapes, gardens, seagulls, and even one of their landlord as a bloated toad monster litter the floor. It’s nice.

Bucky doesn’t keep an eye on Steve when some of the betas from the warehouse help carry a discarded bed frame into the apartment. He’s thanking the boys when Steve comes back into the room with a hickey poking out of his shirt collar.

He doesn’t say anything until the door closes behind the last beta’s muscular shoulders. “Got something you want to share, Steve.”

Steve looks him dead in the eyes, blond hair ruffled and pushed back. “Bruno invited us to a club down the street,” Steve says. “That a problem.”

“Rumlow!” Bucky yells. He clenches his fist, imagines smashes the knucklehead's smug face in.

“That lug,” he says when he knows he won’t be shouting again. “He ain’t going to love you Stevie,” his voice is nearly pleading, begging his best friend to not make this mistake. “He eyes every omega that comes into the warehouse.”

Steve tilts his head, confusion written clear across his soft features. Then a lightbulb must go off cause the punk is laughing deep and loud. The roaring turns into a hacking fit as Steve bends at the waist.

Bucky forgets his anger, letting worry swoop in. He rushes to Steve’s side and wrapping one arm around his waist, guides him to the hard mattress pressed against the wall near the window. Steve’s out of medicine until Bucky’s next paycheck but resting on his side helps calm the omega’s lungs.

They lay side by side until Steve can breathe easily. He rolls over pushing his shoulder into Bucky’s chest, eyes bright blue and clear as a calm ocean day.

“Buck,” Steve says in a sickeningly sweet tone. “That wasn’t love. It was just fun.”

Steve brings a hand up to caress Bucky’s cheek. He smacks it once and says, “Don’t be jealous, I love you most.”

Bucky pushes Steve off the bed before swinging his legs down. He plants his feet on the floor and scowls as Steve stretches out, bony arms resting behind his head, legs under the bed. He’s grinning like a fat cat.

“There’s no need to tease,” Bucky says. He looks away and continues. “Just be safe. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Bucky looks down when a hand lightly pats his knee. Steve’s eyes sparkle as he squares his shoulders. “I am,” he says, voice serious. “And I will be, jerk.”

They go to the club a week later. Steve watches as he dances with a couple gals and a few pretty omega boys but Bucky goes home alone. He won’t betray the vow he made all those years ago.

He doesn’t see Steve until Bucky walks to work and his best friend is hanging off Bruno’s arm. Steve waves at Bucky just before the work bell rings. He smiles and walks away from the warehouse, heading East. Bucky knows Steve is going to the orphanage to help the nuns, so he’s not too worried. 

He still wants to punch Bruno’s smug face in but the boss is watching and he needs this job. He’ll do it next weekend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

War happens and Bucky loses everything with the draft. Everything except a guarantee to heaven. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve turns up as Captain Fucking America. But it’s not enough to stop him from falling off a train. It’s not enough to stop the next 70 years.


	2. Chapter 2

The Asset stares around the dark room, eyes scanning every object with unnatural ability to determine what shapes hide in the gloom. The metal chair is ripped to pieces, shards flung to every corner, parts embedded in the steel walls. There are silver drawers on the left and right sides of the walls, cold hard concrete behind him. The only light streaming into the room comes from the circular hole where there used to be a door.

He doesn’t remember if James ripped the vault door off the hinges completely or just enough for it dangle uselessly. The Asset isn’t stupid enough to think this is the last Hydra base in America, but it’s the last one with a chair. 

He needs a new mission now. The Soldier's target is still alive, still trailing after him but James doesn’t want to face him. Not yet.

He hears rustling outside the vault.

“This is fucking pointless,” a deep timbre says loudly, not even trying to be quiet.

The Asset tries to place the voice but he can’t recall hearing it before. It’s pleasant sounding.

“Be quiet,” a rusty voice hisses.

That one the Asset knows. It’s the target’s friend. Sam Wilson. Alias: The Falcon. Beta, age 36, honorable discharged from the Air Force. Threat level: minimal.

“Or what.” The first man says. “We’ll scare the rats away? There’s no one down here. If he’s been here, he’s trashed the place and left.”

“You don’t know that,” Wilson responds, exasperation bleeding into his voice. “And if he was down here, we can look for clues.”

“What clues?” The other answers. “Like that busted door. Seems like he might have been angry. I never would have thought 70 years of Hydra brainwashing could make a person upset. Or maybe it’s because the Starbucks across the street is out of pumpkin spiced lattes.”

The Asset doesn’t like pumpkin spiced lattes, doesn’t like lattes at all, but the sarcasm dripping from the first man makes him smile. He hears them walking closer, so he pushes himself back, deeper into the shadows.

“I could be at the farm, tending my chickens-”

“If you even think of bitching about Foghorn’s lame wing again,” Wilson interrupts, “I’m going to tell Nat you’re the one who stole her favorite knife.”

The Asset scans through the mental files he has on the Avengers. Nat. Alias: Natasha Romanov, Natalie Rushman, Black Widow. Status unknown. Age unknown. Ex-SHIELD, ex-Red Room. Threat level: high.

“Pshhh. I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it…. and then lost it…. somehow in the Tower or New York. Besides, she already knows.”

“Yeah. Well does Tony know you’re the one that taught Dummy how to throw.”

“You shut your whore mouth,” the first man shrills.

The Asset doesn’t understand why Wilson laughs but he hunkers down further. The pair are walking near the vault and he doesn’t want a fight.

Wilson pokes his head in first, dark eyes scanning the room quickly. He moves silently, pushing himself against the steel to allow the unknown man to enter and sweep the room. His dirty blond hair is styled into little spikes, muscular arms prominent as he holds a bow in one hand, the other loose by his side. He’s taller than Wilson but the Asset knows he’d tower over the man. The scent of an omega fresh off a heat drifts into the room.

Clint Barton. Alias: Hawkeye. Omega, age 44, ex-SHIELD. Threat level: unknown. 

The Asset sees the instant Barton blows his cover, his navy blue eyes dilating, hand knocking an arrow as he blocks Wilson. Wilson, responds by putting his hands in front of him.

“Stand down,” Barton says, all hints of laughter gone.

“We’re here to help,” Wilson says, calm voice somehow covering Barton’s bark.

The Asset doesn’t respond, instead, he calculates how to exit without hurting the men. He knows Winter Soldier would kill them, but the Asset doesn’t want to fight. 

The sound of an arrow flying is all the warning the Asset receives. But it’s more than enough time to grab the shaft. He sees the blinking light and hawks it back to Barton before the trigger goes off. Barton ducks but Wilson isn’t fast enough to avoid the exploding substance that slams him against the wall.

“What the hell?!” Wilson says struggling against the coppery syrupy matter matting him against steel and concrete. He looks like something out of a comic book.

The Asset ignores him, focusing on where Barton is rolling into a crouch, another arrow flying. This one isn’t blinking so the Asset jumps over it, hears it crunch into the concrete behind him. He turns the jump to land on his hands on the table in the room and, using the momentum, somersaults over Barton. 

He makes eye contact with Barton, the omega’s mouth a firm line as another arrow - this one blinking - narrowly misses him. The Asset doesn’t turn around to see the arrow blast, presumably covering the ceiling in the same sticky gloop.

The second his foot hits steel floor, the Asset is zig-zagging out of the vault and down the short hallway that leads to stairs and to an exit. A fourth arrow embeds itself a step in front of him, but the Asset is fast enough to avoid most of the exploding glue. He feels it coat the back of his head, his left shoulder, and his lower back but it’s nowhere near enough to slow him down.

He reaches daylight and runs West.


	3. Chapter 3

He needs a mission. The Asset has never gone this long without a mission. He knows the Winter Soldier's mission but he doesn't want to see the target.

He woke up with a headache again this morning. The Soldier’s memories bleeding in with James’ nightmares creating too much pressure for James to function today. The Asset knows James has retreated into their mind to recuperate for the time being.

He needs a mission.

Looking around the room where he slept, the Asset's gaze lands on a ceramic rooster crowing at the creeping sunlight. It jingles a memory of Barton complaining about chickens two days ago.

He rubs a hand against his head feeling where James had to shave his hair to get rid of the sticky goop. The pants and shirt were dumped in the Hudson River. The Asset knows his side mohawk must look ridiculous but he's not worried about the owners walking in on him in their bed.

The cottage James broke into last night is a tiny little place overlooking a wide lake somewhere in New Jersey. The only bedroom has a private bathroom, too many wall decorations and large, ugly furniture pieces fight for limited space in the room with the bed shoved into a corner. The area feels cramped but highly personal.

It's a summer home and by the look of the light dust that coats the many personal items, the owners skipped the Jersey shore this year.

The Asset swings out of bed, straightens his pants and shirt and leaves the cottage, locking the door behind him. He knows his mission.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Finding the address for the farm is surprisingly easy. None of the SHIELD files Widow released online mention Barton's post-SHIELD life but after three days of using library computers, the Asset finds a suspicious deed made out to one Francis Coulson.

A quick Google search later and he comes to the conclusion that there's no way the seven-year-old Connecticut boy who won last year's state spelling bee can afford a farm in West Virginia. Especially since his single-mother is a teacher at a public school. A little bit of digging leads the Asset to discover the name Phil Coulson, his history and his death. It's not hard to put two-and-two together.

It takes another two weeks to get to West Virginia. James makes an appearance after the Asset dumps the third stolen vehicle at a 24-hour dinner. He doesn't want to interact with any of the Avengers and runs South. It takes a nightmare from assassinating Martin Luther King Jr. to bring the Asset out again.

When the Asset is looking at a map he realizes James’ fear-running added at least another two days of backtracking. Things get even more complicated when the Soldier appears the night the Asset finds Barton’s new home in Nowhere, West Virginia. Waking up with an assault rifle duct-taped to his hands isn’t the most unusual present from the Soldier but it does make the morning more stressful than needed.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter. The Asset quiets the other two inhabitants in his mind long enough to find a place to monitor Barton’s daily activities on the farm.

The omega wakes up later than farm-life requires and he babies the chickens too much. But the Asset finds himself enthralled with how Barton talks to every bird, asking it about their day and if they’re enjoying the fed. The Asset fights to contain a laugh every time the yellow-lab rushes the pen door to chase the birds. He smiles as Barton’s angry yells blend with the dog’s happy yelps. It’s ridiculous but cozy.

After wrangling the dog, and spending even more time with the chickens, Barton moves to the barn where he exercises. It’s clear he’s not training for something in particular - just keeping himself in form. The handstand and aerobic maneuvers fascinate the Asset. Barton is more graceful than James ever was or ever will be.

Three hours after waking, Barton is firing a bow into a series of targets. The Asset is a little shocked when the arrows land wide, missing the bullseye completely. It takes the Asset a few shots to realize that Barton isn’t _aiming_ for the center but for the space between the stitching holding the canvas together. It’s impressive.

Barton continues firing late into the evening, despite twilight wrapping its dark cloak around him, the targets and the bow. He only stops when the dog whines for food. Slipping the bow around his wide shoulders, Barton walks to the house and turns on the only lights for miles.

The Asset waits in his perch high above the tree line. He can’t see Barton, can’t hear anything but he’s used to waiting during missions. It takes a few hours, but one by one, the lights in the house dim to nothing as Barton moves to, presumably, the bedroom on the second floor. The minutes tick by as the Asset waits for the final light to fade but it stays bright.

He decides to stay the night. It’s not the first time he’s gone a day without eating, won’t be the last.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the screaming that wakes James. His hand flies up, knife embedding itself into tree trunk. He clamps his leg around the branch beneath him, confused over what’s happening. James takes in the farmhouse, the bird coop thirty feet away, the sounds of screams and barking. All clues for James to figure out why he’s in a tree.

It’s been awhile since he’s regained control of his body and James has a moment of worry that the Soldier broke free again and was mass-murdering random citizens before hazy memories of the Asset’s goals filter in. The screaming has stopped, causing a hauntingly quiet scene to descend on the farm that not even the late August bugs dare to break. 

He shakes his head and climbs down. Being near an Avenger is too risky. Running on tired legs jogs a memory of men covered in dirt and blood but James pushes it away. He’s learned that all his memories are tainted and should be avoided.

It takes an hour to find any sign of civilization and it’s just a tiny forgotten town carved out of mountainside. By then, the morning sun is just starting to burn across the horizon. James can see a small building proclaiming to be Jean’s Diner, with a waitress wiping down tables.

He pats himself down looking for a sign of a wallet or cash. He finds four more knives, a small handgun, a lump of chewed gum in the jacket’s breast pocket (gross) and a wad of cash in the right boot. Fishing it out, James counts at least $500. More than enough for a cheap breakfast.

His stomach growls at the idea, spurring him to walk toward the door. The sign up front says they open at five, but James has no idea what time it is. He wraps on the door twice to get the waitress’ attention before stepping back, ready to bolt if needed.

She plasters a false smile before heading closer and unlocking the door. “You’re early sug,” she drawls letting the “g” drag out. “Pull up a seat,” she says motioning to a booth while heading back to the kitchen.

Returning, she places a menu and cutlery in front of James before asking, “What’ll you have?”

James doesn’t look at the menu, just says the only breakfast food he remembers, “Coffee and oatmeal.”

She writes it down and walks away. She returns with a mug of black liquid and a small container of cream before walking back to the tables that still need to be wiped down in anticipation of the morning crowd.

James doesn’t want to talk to another living soul and he’s grateful the beta waitress seems to understand. He watches as the food is placed on the little window from the kitchen overlooking the long counter. She places the plate on the table as more guests arrive.

“Heya Barb!” An overly jolly fat man says as he enters the diner. In his blue button-down and gray dress pants, the man projects an image of a teacher or businessman. James can sense the alpha pheromones coming off the man in waves. His omega must have just ended a heat.

The tiny redhead behind him smiles and waves to the waitress before walking to a booth two down from James. The redhead, who looks to be about 20-years-old reeks of claimed omega and it’s easy enough for James to figure out the pair’s relationship, especially when he sees matching rings on their hands as the alpha settles into the booth.

“Mornin’ Burt,” The waitress, Barb, says heading to the coffee pot at the counter. She makes a weird hand motion at the redhead, drawing James’s attention.

He keeps eating, steadily moving the spoon to scoop oatmeal and then bringing it to his mouth. He makes sure it’s not too evenly paced or too slow to draw suspicion and without moving his head, James’ eyes track the waitress and the pair of customers for signs they recognize him. He wouldn’t put it past SHIELD or Hydra to plant agents in small towns throughout rural America. 

Fewer people means less chance of public exposure to whatever secret projects a shady organization works on. 

“Whatcha having?” Barb asks once she stops at the booth, placing two cups of coffee down and then pulling a pencil out of an apron pocket, ready to jolt whatever Burt and the young redhead have to say.

“I’ll start my day off right with a number 8, scrambled, wheat, please,” Burt says smiling. He turns to the redhead, hands lifted.

The redhead stares at the white board in the corner before turning to Burt. He moves his hands in a weird pattern, looking at Burt expectantly. 

“And Shawn,” Burt says to the waitress, “will have chocolate chip pancakes, no whipped cream.” He pauses as the redhead moves his hands again. “And a side order of home fries.”

Barb writes it all down before moving to a table that has new customers settling in.

James finds himself staring at Burt and Shawn as the pair move their hands in a pattern he doesn’t understand but realizes means _something_ to them. It clicks when Shawn laughs, a loud, rough sound. A clear sign he doesn’t do much talking.

Sign language.

Just thinking the words trigger a memory of walking in on Stevie, when he was skinny and young, sitting on one of the orphanage cots with a young beta girl. She couldn’t have been older than six but had been quiet during meals and play time. He sees Stevie and the girl sitting side-by-side, hands waving rapidly.

Stevie had bent his fingers weirdly before zip-zagging them in a half circle making the beta child release an ear piercing giggle. The nuns had run into the room to investigate the sound but Steve had waved them off with a smile.

A week later Sister Ann was asking Bucky to leave his home.

The memory fades just as fast as it appeared and James realizes he had clenched his fingers into a fist, bending the spoon beyond repair. He casts a glance around the diner to see if anyone noticed but the patrons are acting normal. James looks up to see Shawn signing something too fast for James to hope to recreate.

It doesn’t matter because the answer comes quickly when Burt growls lowly and steps out of the booth, making room for Shawn to slide in next to him before the older man sits down again.

James wonders if his staring had bothered the omega. He fights a wave of shame, acknowledging one more thing Hydra took away from him.

Barb walks passed, dropping two plates down for Burt and Shawn but James doesn’t listen to the conversation, instead, thinking of his next move. He knows what he should do, but the question has become if he wants to. It’s been a long time since James has done something he because he wanted to.

He finishes his breakfast quickly, downing the rest of his coffee in two quick gulps. He drops two twenties on the table and leaves the diner before Barb can return from where she’s taking an elderly beta couples’ order. He sees her rushing over to the vacated booth but James doesn’t wait to catch her reaction - he has a farm to stake out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

James spends the rest of the morning creating the perfect perch for watching Barton. Once the omega exits the small home, James freezes, entering a sniper's calm to visually record everything Barton does.

He stays still throughout the day, letting the sun warm him and the night air cools him down. After Barton goes to sleep, James climbs down and returns to the town for food. There’s a late-night gas station that sells cold hot dogs and soda bottles. Without realizing it, James falls into a pattern of eating at either Jean’s or the gas station then returning to Barton’s farm to watch the man’s life.

After a week of watching, James has filled his mental file on Barton with needlessly important details like his smiles, the laugh lines around his eyes, the screams of terror so pure it shakes even the Soldier, how high his voice gets when he chases Lucky around the yard. 

It’s everything James wants.

And that’s why he gets caught.


	5. Chapter 5

On the tenth morning of watching Barton, James returns from Jean’s with a full belly and a giddy anticipation of the day to come. He deviated from the pattern late last night, getting close to the farm. Still too afraid of spreading his sin to Barton, James refrained from entering the house.

Instead, he snuck into the chicken coop to see the hens he’s grown to care about. The pampered birds didn’t even stir, taking the presence of someone new as not a threat. It should have been worrying, having these tiny animals not running in fear of the beast in their home, but James had smiled and petted Darce, the big, brown hen that never runs from Lucky.

After a moment -- James knew he couldn't stay -- he headed to Jean’s. The meal is as delicious as always and James leaves with a smile firmly on his face. Barton isn't scheduled to wake up for another thirty minutes so James is sure he hasn't missed anything.

Jumping to the first hand-hold, he climbs up the tree a little faster than normal. He’s half-way into his nest when the back of his neck tingles. Pausing, James scans his surroundings to find what could have triggered the reaction.

“Over here,” Barton says from two branches up. He’s not carrying a bow but James has seen the man in action, seen the muscles hiding beneath the soft flannel he’s wearing.

“See,” Barton says twirling a twig around his left fingers, “I’m wondering if you’re here for me or the chickens.”

James doesn’t respond. He’d gotten sloppy and didn’t check the coop for an alarm system.

“Hmmmm,” Barton says, prompting James to answer the question.

“The dog, actually,” James says forcing a smile. He’s not sure how real it looks, but it feels worse than fake. 

“Lucky? Hate to break it to you, but he’s retired.”

“Retired from what?” _how can a dog retire???_

“Retired from assholes attacking him,” Barton says threateningly.

There’s a story there but James knows better than to ask. He knows what it means to have scars. Of course, the dog living with an Avenger has a tragic backstory.

“Umm…”

Barton sighs. “Are you here to kill me?”

“What! No. I’m…” James pausing. _Why is he here?_

“Should I call Steve?”

“No.” James clenches his fist at that, metal fingers digging into the tree trunk. He’s still craning his neck in order to keep an eye on Barton and having to look up makes James feel powerless and vulnerable. He can see Barton coming up with a plan but the omega is smart enough to not show any emotions.

“Well,” Barton starts, “you can’t stay in this tree all day. What would the neighbors think?”

James makes a point to look around, noting the lack of visible neighbors. He turns back to Barton and cracks an incredulous eyebrow. Barton just laughs.

“Come on, breakfast won’t make itself.”

The omega doesn’t wait for James to reply, he just swings down to a branch lower to the ground. From there, he jumps off the branch, lands on the ground and does and a little roll. Once he’s out of the tumble, Barton jumps up and throws his hands up into a perfect V. He twists his head, eyes sparkling as he speaks. “What’s the score, judge? I stuck the landing.”

It’s a joke. James gives Barton a grin before answering, “Failed to impress.”

To show off, James launches himself away from the tree, completing at least three flips before he lands, knees bent. He wobbles a little bit but stands straight up without falling. It’s not the most elegant of dismounts but it was better than Bartons. He raises his eyebrow, silently asking for a score.

“Fail,” Barton says with a smirk. “You didn’t stick the landing.”

James scowls in return but it’s wasted since the omega has turned and started ambling to the farmhouse. He walks quickly to catch up but Barton doesn’t say anything else. Not even as they walk past the dog lazily flopped on the living room couch. Once they’re in the kitchen and Barton opens the refrigerator door, Lucky runs into the room and sits in front of a dog bowl on the floor. The pup waits for less than a second before he’s whining.

“Behave,” Barton fake admonishes. “We have a guest.”

The blond turns to look James in the eyes. “What do you want? We’ve got eggs and eggs.”

It’s the first time in a long while that someone’s made eye contact and James wants to respond, wants to say that he already ate. He wants to let Barton know that he hasn’t eaten a meal with someone in over 70 years. But something in Barton’s stance reminds the Asset of Hydra and the fear of going back is enough to let the Soldier take over. 

James watches in silent horror as his metal arm reaches out, fingers curling around the wooden table. Elm shutters at the pressure but Barton doesn’t hear the warning. Just as the omega turns his back to James, saying something to Lucky, the Soldier upends the table, throwing it as hard as he can at the pair.

James can’t see anything in the mess of cutlery, sugar packets and salt and pepper shakers flying in the air. He hears Barton yell something but fate is kind today. Instead of continuing his attack, the Soldier flees.


	6. Chapter 6

The Asset slouches down in one of the corner booths at Jean’s. It’s been more than a month since the Soldier had control of their body and he was reluctant to give up his dominance. Especially to James. Mastermind strategist that marks the Soldier so dangerous, he decided to plan his next move somewhere comfortable. Choosing Jean’s was a logical choice but it proves to be his undoing since the familiar surroundings made him feel safe enough for the Asset to wrestle control of their body.

He’s never seen the afternoon waitress before but she doesn’t bother him. Just refills the white coffee mug every time the Asset gulps the burning liquid down. The Soldier is too violent to have unrestricted control of their body but he was right that they need a plan.

Spying on Barton was a mistake. They need a new mission. One far away from every Avenger. He’s trying to think of a feasible way to smuggle himself into Australia when the little bell above the restaurant door jiggles its pitiful melody.

The clanking on boots hitting linoleum as the latest customer crosses the room reminds the Asset of rifle shots in a rainstorm but no one else is reacting to the scene of a middle-aged blond omega sliding into the seat across from a 20-something alpha. The waitress walks over to the pair, but before she can ask Barton orders.

"Just a cup of joe for me Emma," he says, voice cheerful.

Emma nods her understanding and leaves to give them as much space as the tiny diner offers.

"How..." the Asset starts, not quite sure what question he isn't asking.

"How'd I find you? It wasn't that hard. You're the only new face this town's seen in months."

The Asset knows he needs to think fast, but he's never **done this.** The Soldier handles plans, James handles people and the Asset just does.

James pushes through the Asset's confusion, blinking control of his body.

"What was that?" Barton asks.

"What was what?"

" **That.** " Barton says, clear blue eyes narrowing.

James is suddenly, almost violently, reminded that Barton is one of the best sharp-shooters in the universe. There's no way he didn't notice every facial twitch that James is certain happened when he gained control of his body.

He looks down, trying to think of a plausible lie.

"Can't flip this," Barton says, fingers tattooing on the slab of wood between them. The movement is just enough to draw James' attention but not the attention of anyone else. "Bolted to the floor and the wall. Should of picked one of the tables."

James looks up and to the right, eyeing the small tables and wooden chairs. Those he could easily turn into weapons but they're in the middle of the restaurant, open and defenseless.

"Course that means you'd have your back exposed," Barton continues easily.

"So," he drawls, leaning back slightly. " _What was that._ "

"It's nothing, just-"

"Nothing my ass. Answer the question or I call Nat."

James sighs heavily. He can still escape. He'd just have to slam his coffee mug over Barton's head and run out the door. He could be in Cuban before sundown.

But... but maybe he wants to stop running.

"It's me," he starts. He's trying to think of how to explain it but his thoughts are a whirlwind of nonsense.

"It's you coming back to yourself isn't it."

James doesn't respond but that's enough of an answer for Barton.

"It's you coming back to yourself after someone else had control. How many people you got up there?"

"None. They're all me. I did everything."

Barton hums. "Bullshit."

"I am the Winter Soldier." He makes sure to flex the metal arm to prove his point. He is responsible for what happened. If he never fell from that train, never let himself be caught and experimented on. If he had just been stronger.

Barton hums again. "Then why'd you say 'they'? That's plural."

There's another beat of silence before, "That means more than one," Barton says, voice taking on a smug tone. "So, how many people you got there?"

James knows he should answer but he can't reveal his weakness to Barton. Can't bring himself to say it out loud.

But the omega isn't letting up. "Two? Three? Four? A hundred?"

He scowls at that. "Less than five."

Barton does a quick double take before he clearly forces himself to look away, eyes flinting about the diner. He finally settles when the waitress brings over his cup of coffee. She pauses awkwardly before asking, "Can I get you anything else?"

"No." James says, tone harsher than he means.

He doesn't watch her, keeps his eyes locked on Barton as the blond picks up the mug and takes a sip. This place is too open for this conversation. He doesn't know these people, doesn't want to. It's a startling epiphany but James realizes that he wants to be alone with Barton, his dog, and the damn chickens.

"I'll tell you everything," the alpha starts, gaining Barton's eagle-eye attention instantly. "But only at the farm. And you can't call anyone."

"No dice," Barton says, not even taking a moment to think about it. "You'll tell me everything, I decide who I call."

James levels a glare, not even considering the statement. 

"Or," Barton says, fingers tapping against his chin like he's thinking. "You keep trying to hassle and I call everyone."

"Fine. But at the farm. Please."

Barton, the cocky asshole, just smirks and sticks out his hand. "Deal."


End file.
